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cLMjcylU^ S&&A- 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis Members and Sloan Foundation 



established 1901 

Delaware Valley College 

Doylestown, Pennsylvania 


James Mascoli 
Stanley W. Mucha, Jr. 

Literary Advisor 

Edward O'Brien 


Edward O'Brien 

Publication Advisor 

Jane H. Antheil 

Computer Technician 

Brenda Brown 

Art Editor 

Robert C. Staudt 
Stanley W. Mucha, Jr. 


Rick Bruce 
Robert Frank 
Deborah Glickiich 
Rachel Howe 
Gail S. Lee 
James Mascoli 
Melissa K. Miller 
Jennifer Misko 
Emily Morris 
Edward O'Brien 
Jennifer Orlowsky 
Christy Pensyl 
Dawn Robinson 
Kyla Tatem 
J.D. Trubac 
Richard Ziemer 


Michelle Beck 
Christopher Patzke 
Kent Weaver 


David Jensen 
Eric Morrison 
Steven Sattler 
Robert Staudt 

The Gleaner is published during the academic year by Delaware Valley College students. The 
Gleaner is a student publication and the opinions expressed within are not necessarily those of 
the Gleaner staff or the administration. Neither the College nor the staff will assume 
responsibility for plagiarism unknowingly occurring within. 


Effervescent, Eternal Love 

Jennifer Misko 

Once in love, always a love, 
There is no other way, 
No other song to sing. 

Call that moment, 

A shimmering dewdrop, 
A melting icicle, 

A fantasy of lights, 
The leaves that turn red, 

The leaves that burn orange, 
I see one, 

You glimpse the other, 
Together we see all that is to be seen. 

That is what love is, 

Seeing the unseen, 

Understanding the difficult, 
Imagining the unthinkable. 
Sharing the magnificent, detailed moments 
That create life, and essence of being. 
Melting our thoughts together, 
Building our dreams into an 

Effervescent, everlasting love. 

A love for all seasons, 
All times, 
All places, 
Our love, an everlasting love. 


Dawn Robison 

Maybe there is nothing 


that inspires Me, 

Maybe it's this place 

these walls 

My fault 

your face 

or his 


but I've never seen such a sky, 




this sky 


is beyond all beauty in my mind. 

And I know these things 

you don't want to say 


I moan, 
where I am 
everything I am 
all too afraid 
to admit 
Above my head 
the horizon 

just a little too far away 
like my inspiration 

I stare 

past it all 







to hug my knees 

on concrete steps 

behind the building 

we all live in. 


I question 


James Mascoli 

One day, I will be able to go into the back yard 

Where once as a child I'd played 

Innocent and pure. 

And one day I'll be able to find where the ground's all 

sunk in 
And that's where I'll discover the X 
I marked so long ago. 
I'll brush away all the dead leaves 
That have littered the place, 
And roll up my sleeves... 
And dig, and dig. 
Letting the dirt under my nails. 
I'll scratch and pick with my bare hands, 
And one day soon, I'll find 
The anger I buried there so long ago... 


Melissa K. Miller 

I am like a red macaw loud and untamed, I sing my song 
my beak as sharp as a diamond I rip and tear my way 
to wherever my wings will take me and wherever my 
mind will lead me; I can fly high as a balloon and talk 
as sweet as a flower 

Running wildly, jumping high, 

back to nature 

Sunrise streams on our naked bodies 

Animalistic feelings pounce though my brain 

Snapping out of it, the mind is a wonderful creature. 

Throwing Pebbles in the Water 

Rachel Howe 

It's all supposed to be so clear to me now 

But it's not, and I wonder if it ever will 

One giant blur of life 

It hadn't started this way 

A single child sits alone 

At the edge of a pond 

Gazing at her reflection 

In the calm cool blue water 

Loving every moment 

Admiring herself and 

Dreaming of what she may be, 


Then her friends come along 

To share the moment 

They can't help but to 

Throw pebbles into the water 

She joins in 

And the reflection 

Although not quite ruined 

Is impossible to see clearly 

The children wander away 

From the pond 

And later she can only remember 

The blur of her once-perfect reflection 

Unable to recall 

Who threw the first pebble. 

The Power of Walking 

James Mascoli 

I walked for three miles and then onto a roadside field, 

And then the world stopped. 

I was suddenly a youngster again. 

I was full of the smell of fresh-cut straw and grass. 

I felt the vastness of this great field of grasses. 

I felt completely healthy. 

I was energized and renewed. 

Walking makes me whole. 

Sometimes it is a joy above all other joys. 




Man of God; Man of the World 

Edward W. O'Brien, Jr. 

The New York Times of April 7th, 1992, carried the obituaries of two 
famous Americans who died within two days of each other: Samuel 
Reshevsky and Isaac Asimov. The former was one of the great chess 
masters in the long history of the game; the latter was the well-known writer 
of science and science fiction, who authored 400 books. Both had been 
child prodigies; both were Jewish intellectuals who achieved great 
distinction in their careers — and yet how different these two men were in 
their approach to life! For someone like myself, who loves both chess and 
science fiction, their lives are of interest, especially as seen against the 
backdrop of religion. 

What of Isaac Asimov? According to the leading historian of science- 
fiction, Sam Moskowitz, young Isaac possessed a nearly photographic 
memory for facts and so he finished high school in Brooklyn at 15, obtained 
a B.A. from Columbia University at 19, and an M.A. at the age of 21. It 
was a scientific education in chemistry. Moskowitz writes, however, in 
Seekers of Tomorrow, "On the street he was always preoccupied, brushing 
past people he knew with no sign of recognition." The young man loved 
science, yet almost drove his sister to distraction with his witty sarcasms. 
He liked the big city but felt no particular kinship with nature. Moskowitz 
says, "He was, during those early years, extremely self-centered; the world 
revolved around him." 

Asimov sold his first story to Amazing Stories in 1939, at 18. From then 
on, he scored occasional, and then many successes at writing cerebral 
science-fiction; Asimov was more at home with ideas and technology than 
with creating complex human characters. He was also oversensitive to any 
criticism. His best novels are Pebble in the Sky, The Caves of Steel, and the 
Foundation trilogy. Asimov, later a professor of chemistry at Boston 
University, also wrote volumes of science fact. At his peak, he wrote ten 
books a year, becoming a sort of writing machine. He even wrote on 
vacations. He dealt with a great range of subjects; for example, Asimov's 
Guide to the Bible, Lecherous Limericks, Asimov on Chemistry. The 
intellectual brilliance of the man cannot be denied. 

What of the cultural and spiritual side, however? That is another matter. 
Isaac Asimov seems to me a very visible and forthright embodiment of 
secular humanism and scientism. As a signatory of the aggressive and 
antireligious Humanist Manifesto of 1973, and a past president of the 
American Humanist Association, he believed that in the scientific method 
alone lay the path to truth and wisdom. Furthermore, he was an atheist who 
had a contempt for religion. In a postcard to me in 1989, he wrote that all 
religions have persecuted scientists. In his narrow and false view of 
religion, he regarded the Church as an enemy of scientific progress. 

The Times article quoted Asimov: "I never read Hemingway or Fitzgerald 
or Joyce or Kafka. To this day I am a stranger to 20th century fiction and 
poetry...." He did read Agatha Christie! And is it not very difficult to 
imagine him reading Aquinas and Dante! The prismatic worlds of great 
literature were a closed book to him. The result is narrowness and 
ignorance of human values. He loved the slide rule and the lab; he 
preferred the outer planets and pulp fiction instead of the joy of reading C. 
S. Lewis or G. K. Chesterton. Asimov said, "I work every day.... Writing is 
my only interest. Even speaking is an interruption." Asimov was concerned 
largely about scientific fact, but not about the Four Last Things. Does 
atheism and secular humanism help to cause an aloof, cold-blooded 
concentration on facts? 

Still, in fairness to him, we must recall that Asimov did marry and beget 
two children. He got divorced in 1973 and then married again. Sam 
Moskowitz wrote of him in the 1960s: "If Isaac Asimov has changed in any 
way in the past 20 years, it is in the gradual diminution of his mad 
exhibitions and the spontaneous explosions of humor which he employed to 
reduce his self-consciousness by making himself the center of attention at 
any public function." A friend of mine who observed him at a party in New 
York not so long ago says he still hadn't changed much in this regard. 

Now consider Samuel Reshevsky, born in Poland in 1911 of Orthodox 
Jewish parents. The Times obituary notes: "Even before learning chess, the 
youngster acquired a devotion to his religion that never lapsed, and for a 
generation nothing in the world of chess was as certain as the knowledge 
that he would not play on the Sabbath." When the young boy was eight, he 
staged his first chess tour of European capitals, scoring endless victories in 


exhibitions of simultaneous play, taking on 40 or 50 opponents at a time. 
His parents brought him to America in 1920 and soon the "boy wonder" 
began to build his legend by facing 20 members of the faculty at West Point 
Military Academy, winning 19 games and drawing one. Later, he dazzled 
America by losing only eight of 1,500 games on exhibition tours. 

Reshevsky became a major celebrity in the 1920s. Seven times he won 
the U.S. chess championship through the years and, along the way, defeated 
many of the world's best players, including the fabled Cuban master 
Capablanca in 1935 and the Russian titan Botvinnick in 1955, who was then 
world champion. But Reshevsky never won the world title and in 1958 was 
finally eclipsed by the brilliant boy from Brooklyn, 14-year-old Bobby 
Fischer. Yet, in 1969 and 1971, Reshevsky won his last American 

It seems to me that Samuel Reshevsky was a more balanced and sensible 
man in his pursuit of chess supremacy than was Isaac Asimov in his 
dedication to science and science fiction. Chess is a field that is well- 
known for producing and nurturing over dedicated chess specialists; men 
who devote an incredible amount of time to studying and playing the 
appallingly difficult game of chess. There have been many chess players- 
such as Bobby Fischer and Alexander Alekhine-who have lived for chess, 
but Reshevsky was not that sort of player. Yes, he wanted to win like any 
competitor; nevertheless, his life was larger and deeper than the chessboard. 
He stopped playing entirely in order to go to high school and then to 
college. Later he married and became an investment analyst and insurance 
salesman, professions having nothing to do with chess. As an Orthodox Jew 
(a lifetime commitment for him), Reshevsky put God before career and 
personal ambition. Think of the inconvenience of never playing on the 
Sabbath, when many chess tournaments are staged on weekends. Consider, 
too, the sneers he may have endured throughout his career because of his 
fidelity to Judaism. 

The Times article points out that Reshevsky was not only devoted to his 
religion but also to his family: his wife Norma, son Joel, and daughters 
Sylvia and Malki. Reshevsky also had a great love of classical music. 
Here, then, is a well-rounded man who was not relentlessly intent on 
promoting his chess career. Since his religious faith and piety were so 


central to his life, it is not too much to say that this faith provided 
Reshevsky with the wholesomeness and prudence and normality which he 
seems to have possessed. 

Though he never captured the world chess crown, he must have known 
there were other and better crowns to wear. 

previously published in 
The Wanderer June 4, 1992 





mi m ->■, S-& 

tl'IM it >'' ''■■ ®*H 



Richard C. Ziemer 

Help, No Help Needed 

Without any effort on my part 
I became. 

Without any choice on my part 
I became a male. 

With some struggle 

I became a man. 

With some privilege 

I became a husband. 

With great pleasure 

I became a father. 

With some perseverance 
I earned a living. 

With some conflicts 

I became a Dad. 

With some regrets 

I'm turning gray. 

With great remorse and helplessness 
One day 
I'll lay it all away. 

--fall 1988 



Gail S. Lee 

Spring bursts forth on warming days 

Daffodils raise their trumpets in praise 

Colorful blossoms brighten our way 


Walk beside me, soak in the sun's rays 


The birds are warbling their praise 

Can you see it? 

Can you hear it? 

Can you feel it? 

Newness, rebirth, renewal rings forth 

My heart unbound from winter's storms 

Reaches outward, upward, around about 

Warbling with joy, Singing with praise 

My heart bursts forth on the Lord's warming ways. 

'■"i'i: -Ml. -MllV.iif''' 

\ "mm 



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UaC fi'0^u.^iL 



Emily Morris 

I will say in words, 

what my heart feels, 

to my dearly departed Perrier 

my Perrier whom I loved 

and miss so much, 

I have gathered the strength, 
to Anally bid you a sweet goodbye 
after months of sorrow and anguish 
I may finally say my beloved 

My heart was sick, 
like an uneasy sea- 
while I watched you suffer, 
in agony. 

I as helpless as a child 
could do nothing 
and yet I feel I missed 

Of green grass, 
with blue skies 
running streams 
and rivers, 

Purple mountains, 
colorful flowers, 
and run free with 
your ancient ancestors, 

Now my sweet-sweet, 
Perrier I bid you a final 

With much sorrow, 
and love I say 
my final goodbye, 

As your mother 
and you my child 
I set you free, 

You are no more, 
bound by halter 
or lead, 

You may run 


the stable door, 

is no longer 


and you may 
run free 
into the purple 

With bright-bright 
fragrant flowers 
and clear blue skies 

You may fun free, 

and wild into 

the lush green grass 

You my child my pet, 
my horse my friend 
you are finally free 

To roam with your 
kind; you my Perrier 
are no longer mine, 

So now sadly 
I say a final 


True Friends 

Rick Bruce 

Friends are those who warm your heart 

Without a word 

But only a smile, 

And all the while 

You know inside 

That when they leave 

You may never see them again, 

But that of a friend 

Will be remembered forever, 

For a smile so sweet 

Which nothing compares, 

Or compete. 

The Friend 

Robert Frank 

A person who enhances your life, 

Knowing your accord and your strife. 
Respecting both for the individual they compose, 

Always watchful for threats of foes. 
The sibling not born of your clan, 

But knows you like the back of a hand. 
Someone who knows your thoughts before they happen, 

A relationship that most cannot even imagine. 
No sea or continent can keep you apart, 

Refuse the distance and look straight to your heart. 
There you will find the person you seek, 

That voice will remind you things are not so bleak. 
Through joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, 

The friend is one who will always remain. 



Tongue Tied 

Jenn Orlowsky 

It is very hard for me 

to say the right thing. 

I always seem to mess up, 
especially at the wrong times. 

Sorry I didn't make such a 
good first impression. 

It's just hard to speak when 
I look into your eyes. 

You not only captured 
my heart. 

But you've also captured 
my tongue. 



The Answer 

Jennifer Misko 

I've been wondering, 

But no answer came. 
I've been looking, 

Yet, no light is shed. 
I've been searching, 

Yet, still no destiny presents! 
No life, no love, no soul 

Bursts the psyche 
And makes itself apparent. 
No wisdom brings 

the time or truth to judgement. 
Only the new day 
Will open the way 
Engulf the soul, 
And make a marred life, 
An old love and 

A disgruntled soul 




Deborah Glicklich 

No one will ever know what I'm thinking. 
I'm sitting alone in my private world. 
I'm in a place no one will ever understand. 
I'm only allowed to let one person in. 
I must choose wisely and carefully. 
Only then will someone be able to share my 

thoughts, my dreams, my visions. 
Until that time comes, 
No one will ever know what I'm thinking. 


Rachel Howe 


Time is always on my mind. 

In "due time", what will I find? 

I close my eyes, and ponder this thought 

I review my life and what's been taught 

Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days; 

Months, Years and Decades; 

Can't you help me, to define time... 

Because all I find, 

Is time on my mind. 


Are You There? 

Rachel Howe 

I sat on my bed Indian style with a pillow propped behind my 
back. I sat, staring at the long, thin box on my bed while listening to the 
static of the record as the needle moved between songs. I opened the box 
and unfolded the board staring numbly at the two rows of the letters that 
formed a semi-circle the length of it. I pulled the small tear drop-shaped 
indicator out of the box and positioned it's tiny plastic window over the 
letter "D." By now Elvis's voice was flowing through the room along with 
the crackle and hiss of the needle as it fell upon years of scratches and dust. 
The voice sang to me, "Are you lonesome tonight?", and I was very 
lonesome. My fingers lightly grazed over the embossed letters that formed 
the logo "PARKER BROTHERS" as I slowly moved the window from "D" 
to "A" in a small backward arc. Now Elvis was asking, "Do you miss me 
tonight?" My eyes became tiny overflowing ponds. In a whisper I said, "I 
miss you..." Now the window was again showing "D." Slowly I moved the 
indicator into an empty place on the board and patiently waited as I had 
many times before as Elvis asked the final necessary question, "Are you 
sorry we drifted apart?" 


Dream On 

Rick Bruce 

Dreams are like bridges 

Without support 

They shall never be crossed. 

Dreams are like birds 
Without wings 
They could never fly. 

And dreams without logic 
Will surely die. 



J.D. Trubac 

As the waves rhythmically break on the shore, 
I see my life spread out the distance of this beach. 
Each day a grain of sand- 
Soon to be washed away by an unforgiving tide, 
Forgotten Evermore. 
In this way I see days away from you- 
Soon replaced with fresh new days 
Filled with fond memories to come. 

Under All That Dust 

Melissa K. Miller 

One day the winds of the world swept in a traveler in 

boots and blue jeans 

Rugged, tough, and resistant to the elements. 

Invited him in intrigued by his aura 

Unaware of the danger that lay ahead 

Dusted off and out of the cold 

I saw a glare in his eyes that compelled me to stare. 

Blinded and spellbound I refused to look away. 

It rained that day I met the traveler 

And a bolt of lightning shot across the sky 

Catching my attention; I looked away 

Unfamiliar and frightened with my new surroundings 

Afraid of what's ahead, Afraid of what I'll 

leave behind 

Fascinated and confused I watched the traveler 

fade into dust 



The Sun and Its Attendant Stars 


The sun and its attendant stars 

cannot be bought or sold - 
No marketplace or lottery can put a price 

on the firefly 

or the ever-elusive commodity of 

diamonds in the sky. 

Thunderstorms and midnight moons, the 

cool kiss of morning air - all free! 
Happy are those who know life's pain then feel 

earth's rhythms the comfort of the sea. 

Gentle winds of change guide us - we grow 

Disablers become enablers, enablers become friends. 

Ends become beginnings, beginnings become ends. 

The angels smile with knowledge of God's goal - 

my life is sweet because you share your soul. 




Kyra Tatem 

Alone I sit and listen 
to the voices of the past; 
the walls are breathing, seething 
now with conveisations last. 

There is fury in the silence 

and laughter in the tears. 

I wonder who will win 

this game of righteousness revered. 

I used to conjure images 
of what our lives would be, 
now alone I sit and listen 
to what we could not see. 


Christy Pensyl 

Where are the gallant knights of long ago? 
There is not one here to save the maiden. 
The gTeat white horses are never to go. 
No one is around to rescue the day. 

There are no longer maidens in distress, 
and no white knights to climb the twisted vines. 
The ladies no longer wear long dresses, 
and no longer are there towers to climb. 

No one ever uses proper English. 
There is no lasting poetry to read, 
Romantic poetry's just diminished. 
No one ever dares to write down a dream. 

Times of Romantic poets have passed. 

Their works of art, though, will forever last. 


Spring Rain __ 

J. D. Trubac 

The park was empty that afternoon as she strolled among the naked 
trees. She knew that something horrible was going to happen; she could 
hear it in the sound of Richard's voice. She looked to the sky almost as if 
to ask it to make everything all right again. Almost answering, it opened up 
and started to rain dismally. 

She did not shield herself from the icy rain; instead, she remained 
still and allowed the tiny icicles to awaken her senses. She breathed deeply. 
Part of her wished that Spring were in bloom, for she had always loved 
spring rain. It would flood the earth and bless all it touched, leaving fertile 
seeds nourishment to grow. The rain could do no wrong in Spring, but it 
froze everything and stung all it touched now. 

She walked a bit and looked at the trees all glazed with their icy 
coverings that would rattle as the wind whisked through the park. The wind 
blew her hair in front of her but it really didn't matter; she didn't need to 
see where she was going, for she knew this place well. She walked with 
sure footing, and passed a statue that had been turned to glass by the frozen 
dew-it made the statue beautiful, yet cold and unapproachable. 

She walked on noting the harsh, clean, salty smell of the waterfront 
air, and somehow felt comforted by it's uncompromising consistency. It 
was familiar to her, as were all the other things along this walkway. 

She approached a bench with a tall thin man standing next to it. 
_Chloe! You're fifteen minutes late, I was worried. 
He kissed her. 

Oh, no, I was just taking my time... 
She responded absentmindedly. 

_You mean taking my time- I do have things to do. Oh, well, anyhow. 
He went on speaking with the same forced relaxation that he did everything 
else, as if trying to convince himself that he was very relaxed when he was 
in reality very uptight. 

He spoke to her in a rigorous monotone, and often repeated 


himself, more for his own benefit than for anyone else's. He spoke about 
how he so disliked talking about their relationship, and her irrational 
behavior in high pressure situations. He asked her, several times, not to be 
so compulsive (each time she agreed). Then he ended his speech saying 
that he was certain that the two could remain friends. 

-and I know this won't affect our friendship at all... Chloe? _Oh, excuse me, 
Richard, what was that last thing? 

With that he repeated, with slightly more emphasis, the entire 
speech-including a new sub-topic about how she makes everything so 
difficult, and how nice everything would become if she would just "get it." 

This time Chloe nodded while ignoring what he was saying, 
because, like everything else that surrounded her, she was familiar with this 

When he finished she quietly asked 

So why did you want to see me? You could have chastised me over the 

He sighed deeply, with evident frustration. She was being coy, and had not 
been paying attention. He wished that she would, just once, take him 

Well, Chloe, if you must know, I am getting married in April. 

Oh, you've set a date? 
She did not sound distressed. 

You realize I can't see you anymore. 

Yes... .but do you really mean that? 

He had said that when he met Laura, and again when he got 
engaged, and now he was saying it again... 

Yes! Of course I mean it! Stop pouting-Laura and I are in love, and 
although you and I have had a great friendship that doesn't change how I 
feel about her! 

But she does change how you feel about me. 

I love her, you are just a friend. 

Aren't you being a bit simplistic? 

I don't think so, he said simplistically. 

Fine, she said curtly. 


He put his hand on his head, and mumbled, I just can't win with you, can 


_No, I mean it's fine-great. 

He sighed heavily. 


_Where are you having it? she asked. 


he replied, surprised at her light tone. 

_God, I hope it doesn't rain like today, he added. 

_Yeah, you know what they say about April and showers. 

_Yeah, he answered, still puzzled. 

_WelI, maybe you'll be lucky. 

Having nothing left to say, she turned and walked away. 


To My Hero, on the Anniversary of His Death 

J.D. Trubac 

"It's been a long, cold, lonely winter..." 

How can I tell you 

What it is that you have given to me. 

You gave me hope, 

Gave me pride. 

Pride in your artistry, pride in your song, 

All you would have had to say 

I would have been there- 

But now you're gone, 

Before I could have known you, 

Before I could see- 

You were taken from us all... 

If only I might have known, 

Or better, if only he could have seen 

What it was that he did to me that day. 

"It's better to fade away like an old soldier than to burn out... I 
worship the people who survive"